


A Delighted Preoccupation

by clio



Series: where the falling stars live [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Awkward Crush, F/M, Mutual Pining, One minor reference to Cara Dune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio/pseuds/clio
Summary: Omera, he comes to understand, is many things. A mother. A widow. An ace shot. Omera is good.Kind.Beautiful.But most of all, he realizes, is that she is distracting.Not that it’s a problem.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Omera
Series: where the falling stars live [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176716
Comments: 21
Kudos: 43
Collections: Mandomera Week 2021





	A Delighted Preoccupation

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely set sometime during S1E4. 
> 
> prompt: pining

"Very often what comes first is simply a delighted pre-occupation with the Beloved--a general, unspecified pre-occupation with her in her totality."

\- **C. S. Lewis** , _The Four Loves_

Omera, he comes to understand, is many things. A mother. A widow. An ace shot. Omera is good. 

Kind.

_Beautiful._

But most of all, he realizes, is that she is distracting.

Not that it’s a problem.

Except, truth be told, he finds himself so unlike _himself_ whenever she’s around. More often than not these days he is startled to discover his eyes have strayed once more to wherever Omera happens to be, that they linger just a little too long whenever she crosses his line of sight, that they _anticipate_ her entrance each morning when she brings him and the kid their breakfast, or in the late afternoons when she’s on her way home from a day spent in the ponds. In these moments his attention is utterly captivated, and it takes several long seconds for him to emerge from his haze of fascination. It has come to the point where even the villagers are starting to take notice, ducking their heads to hide their all-too-knowing smiles.

That startling realization would, in itself, be disconcerting enough but for the way the whole world falls radio silent when she smiles up at him, the pleasant stirring of something in his chest when she drifts a little too close to his side, the way he grows self conscious when he feels her sneak glances in his direction. Times when she lets _her_ gaze linger upon him. 

Not to mention what happens when Omera teases him, her lips twisting just so and with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. Under all his many layers and armor, his whole body flushes with an uncharacteristic heat and he finds himself rendered altogether incapable of speech or action, his entire head empty of words and thought. 

_You are so bad at flirting_ , Cara laughs at him one day. _Poor Omera must have it bad_. 

He considers this. 

By now he can acknowledge that being covered from head to toe in armor has always demanded attention, usually by way of some confrontation featuring guns and goons and a heavy exchange of credits and clout. But sometimes his appearance draws attention of a different sort, one that seems softer, milder, but is nevertheless as dangerous, and likely more wicked, than the brawls he prefers. Regardless, he has never been one to kneel before someone’s vanity. 

So whatever _flirting_ he’s experienced is not at all the kind of attention Omera bestows upon him. There are no lewd jokes or speculations made at his expense, no roaming hands, no vulgar words purred into his ears, and no unsolicited invitations to bed. From Omera comes no trickery, no deceit, no attempts at victory over him simply for the thrill of a chase and prospect of conquest. 

Instead, Omera offers him shy smiles and sweet blushes, provides him silence when he needs it and an understanding ear should he want it. And if she has issued him an invitation at all, it has merely been to be himself, with the caveat that she be permitted to tease him every so often. 

The effect of this is startling and complete. 

It happens gradually, so gradually, in fact, that he does not perceive it until it is much too late. Here and there he shares small bits about his life, about his past, and braces himself for a fall that never comes. Emboldened, he discloses more—his thoughts, his worries, his hopes. And, still, Omera uses none of it as fodder when she teases him, his secrets remain safe with her. 

She provides safe haven for him and all his vulnerability, where he and, by extension, the child, are protected despite all she knows. 

It is a humbling revelation. 

And somewhere in the middle of all this, he begins to feel a spark of _something_. A very soft, profound something. As a long-time member of the guild, he is not someone predisposed to asking questions. And yet, a gentle curiosity draws him to Omera, desiring to know all her interests and how she spends her time. He seeks out her opinions, values her thoughts and her worries and her hopes, and admires her kindness as well as her strength. 

He wants to spend all his time with her, feels himself become greedy in his desire to listen to her talk about her day, to hear her swap stories with others, to bask in the sound of her melodic laughter. He thinks about what it would be like if, one day, as they sit together and watch the children play, Omera might let her head rest on his shoulder. He lets himself imagine one day pulling off his gloves and pressing his naked palms against hers. 

He wakes up in a cold sweat. 

In those waking moments when the dream hasn’t quite faded, he can almost feel the warmth of Omera’s fingers between his. But then he blinks, shaking the phantom touch from his mind, and knows he’s in more trouble than even he realized. He knows full well that he shouldn't. That he _can't_.

Except, except that there is a festival being held in the village to celebrate the successful end of the harvest, and there is food and music and general merriment. And, of course, Omera, just there, dancing with Winta and the child in a beautiful teal dress, a crown of sun-kissed flowers settled upon her lovely head. 

Except now Omera’s spotted him lingering at the edge of the festivities and she’s making her way over to him. With her face perfectly flushed from dancing and the setting sun over her shoulder streaking auburn in her hair and caramel across her skin, he perceives several things happening all at once. 

He feels the world begin to slow down, moving a fraction of time too late, and all sound becomes muffled except for the rapid beating of his heart echoing inside his helmet. His own hesitant feet help close the distance between them and somehow Omera has found his gaze despite his visor, gracing him a smile so joyous and so full of welcome he has a hard time imagining anything else could be as beautiful.

He doesn’t see the dip in the ground in front of him. 

Because suddenly he’s plummeting, his steps uncertain and clumsy. 

But Omera is right there to catch him, steady him. He finds himself in her arms, can feel the strength in her embrace. These are the arms of a farmer, of a mother, of a marksman.

“I’ve got you,” she says with a familiar twist of her lips and a sparkle in her fine eyes.

He thinks perhaps that he should feel embarrassed at such a display of inelegance, but Omera is now so close and the flowers in her hair perfume the air they breathe so sweetly that he can’t bring himself to mind. 

He makes no rush to untangle himself. 

Instead, he gathers his courage and lets his hands slowly make their way to her waist, timid fingers settling along her rib cage. Omera doesn’t pull away, her own hands resting lightly on his shoulders as he recalibrates to this new sense of intimacy.

In all honesty, he is a little lightheaded, the edges of his mind going just a bit fuzzy, and he has a passing thought that perhaps something more might be found in the space between them. 

He nearly gasps, his hands trembling at the realization that it could actually be true. 

Omera reaches up and lifts the flower crown from her head, sliding it onto the top of his helmet. Taking him in, she laughs, her head thrown back and neck exposed to the sky in a moment of unrestrained and perfect joy. His fingers clench at her sides. 

“Keep it,” she says, a smile in her voice. “It looks good on you.”

And then she’s out of his arms, the ends of her hair floating behind her as she returns to the celebration, gathering Winta and the child once more to her side.

He watches as they dance and spin in circles, their peals of laughter ringing through the air, and he feels a profound longing to join them, a desire to complete the picture. The child turns toward him then, finding him through the crowd. He waves one tiny green hand. 

No, he’s got it all wrong. 

Winta also waves at him before turning to her mother, who is looking at him with unfathomable tenderness shining in her eyes. 

No, he realizes. He's not distracted. Not being kept _from_ something. 

But rather, he’s found a new direction.

Something to move _towards_. 

And it demands his entire attention. Requires his devotion. 

The realization settles deeply into him, snug in the center of his chest. 

As if at the beginning of a new quest, he gathers his breath to affirm his resolve. 

He takes a step forward.

**Author's Note:**

> come tumbl with me: [clio-in-retrogade](https://clio-in-retrograde.tumblr.com/)


End file.
